The Palette & After
by WontLastTwoDays
Summary: Richonne angst, scenes between the events of Season 7 and 8. Originally a one-shot, but added on.
1. Chapter 1

Michonne got back from gate tower duty late. With no guns and even fewer people, the security patrols were sparse. But Alexandria managed to keep one person at the gate tower, 24/7, thanks to Father Gabriel. That is why Michonne was late, Father Gabriel had tried to give her the same pep talk that he'd given Rick earlier in the day. But the second speech went about as well as the first. Michonne couldn't hear him. All she could think about was their beds smoldering on the side of the road.

When he was done, Michonne looked up at him finally and just said, "I haven't seen any sign of our people still out there." Gabriel Nodded. Before Michonne climbed down she added, "I'm going to patrol outside tomorrow. I probably won't be able to do my night gate shift."

"That is fine, Scott has been asking to do more to help out. He can take your shifts."

When Michonne got home she kept her eyes down. She needed to shower and sleep. If she paid too much attention to what all they had lost today, her anger would keep her up all night. Rick wasn't asleep when she got to their bedroom. She could tell by his breathing. He rolled over to his back.

"Hey," his voice was gravelly, parched, "everythang OK at the gate tonight?" He had been waiting up. They hadn't spoken since she said she'd try. Then, she disappeared, again. He caught a glimpse of her on the tower that evening and knew she was within the community, at least.

"Quiet," Michonne replied as she set down her katana. She looked around for a moment. The dresser was gone. Her heart sank.

Rick, sensing her confusion and building disappointment, turned on the lamp and said, "some of your clothes are at the bottom of the closet. I folded them. They didn't take everythang."

She gave him a look that she wished could convey gratitude for the gesture. But fighting her true feelings, she knew she probably looked at him blankly as she walked over to the closet. She used the lamp light to find some fresh clothes.

"You can turn that out," she said as she headed to the bathroom. Rick reached up and turned out the light and stared up at the blank ceiling. As he heard the shower start, he fought with his memories. _She's alive. She's home, that is all that matters_. He forced himself to run down the list of things to do tomorrow. She could come with him, Carl too. He needed the help and he could make sure they don't do anything stupid.

He heard the shower turn off. After a short while, Michonne came out of the bathroom fully clothed, again. She collapsed on the pallet of blankets and let out a sharp exhale. The barely cushioned floor felt even crueler than she had anticipated. She seethed. _So much for sleep_ , she thought to herself. Rick turned on his side toward her. She turned her head to look at him. For a long moment, he just stared at her. Then tears began to rim the bottom of his eyes and for a moment more he looked through her.

Concerned, Michonne turned her whole body now to face his. Her locks splayed in the space between them. Rick's arm fell from his waist and into the space between. He looked down as his fingertips gently caressed the jagged edge of one of her locs. An unexpected wave of embarrassment crashed over Michonne. Rick had noticed, noticed what they had done to her. She felt humiliated and angry, so angry that they had caught her out there, taken her clothes, and used a hunting knife to saw off some of her locs. She had not known the real reason why they took these personal effects. All the Savior had said as he waved around her severed dreadlocks and vest in his hands was, "these belong to Negan."

"They took them," she finally choked out, the anger strangling her words.

"I'm sorry," Rick whispered not looking up.

"It's not your fault," Michonne said quietly, but defiantly. She had made the call to be out there, to go after Daryl. Rick trying to take responsibility for what happened just stoked her humiliation more.

He wanted to protest. He wasn't just sorry for what they took from her, but for his distance since, the subjugation today, that damn deer. But, words didn't matter, he knew that. And they disagreed so sharply about the right actions to take that he felt for the first time ever that she couldn't trust him. She wanted to trust him, he felt that. She was lying next to him, after all, but that fighter in her that he loved so deeply, she would never accept this. She was fighting herself for him.

He looked up at her big brown eyes. His breath hitched. "Come with me and Aaron tomorrow."

Michonne turned to lie on her back again, her hair pulled away from Rick's reach. She stared up at the ceiling. This was the closest they had been in days and he used it to request she scavage for Negan. She stayed there her lips opened and pursed together as she tried to find the words. Finally, she settled on, "we need sleep."

Rick nodded and banged his head into his pillow a couple times. After several minutes Michonne saw his chest moving up and down in slow rhythms. She watched him sleep for a couple hours more till the rhythm of his breathing turned the volume down on her anger and slowly, finally she fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Aftermath

Father Gabriel walked over to the porch of the Grimes house. "Carl, I'm going to get Rosita home. After I do, I'll send someone back to watch Judith." Carl dropped his head in acknowledgment. He didn't want leave Olivia's body just lying there on the porch, but he knew he needed to be with his sister.

Rick was still standing over Spencer dead body. Father Gabriel, kept his distance but addressed him, "Rick, inside or outside?"

Rick started to answer when Rosita lifted her head from the pavement, "Inside, at least he fucking tried."

"Just like Eugene," questioned Tobin.

"Hey! Not today," Tara defended.

Rick bit the inside of his cheek, then he nodded hesitantly at Gabriel.

"Ok, we'll get the graves ready. Tobin, Tara, can you help?" The two briefly shot steely looks at each other and then agreed. They headed toward the tool shed keeping a wide distance.

Father Gabriel tucked a hand under Rosita's arm and coaxed her up off the street. She stalled, staring into his face tears streaming from her eyes. "I'm a curse," she whispered.

"No. No, Rosita. Negan did this, all of this. Let's get you home."

Rosita finally stood slowly, one shaky, defeated leg at a time. Father Gabriel kept his arm around her all the way to her house till she collapsed in an armchair in her living room. The large house fell silent, like a tomb. Father Gabriel went into her kitchen. He found a towel, ran hot tap water over it, and brought it back to Rosita. She placed the towel on her face over her cut and buried her face in her hands silently sobbing. Gabriel paused for a moment and then went and stood in the corner of the room.

After a few minutes, Rosita looked up from her lap and saw that he was still here. "Shit, I'm not Judith. I don't need a babysitter!"

"I just want to make sure you are safe."

"Safe? Christ, do you think I'd try to off myself? Eugene just got taken by those animals. I'm not going to give up."

Father Gabriel gave a small smile.

"I just want to be alone."

"Alone in _this_ house," Father Gabriel questioned gently.

"Yes," Rosita said defiantly, "in _this_ house. Now go." He paused for a moment more before leaving Rosita with her ghosts.

Father Gabriel stopped by the graveyard. The teams were digging the graves in silence. Gabriel took the shovel from Tara. "Rosita," he started to say.

"I'll go over there now," Tara cut in before he could finish. Father Gabriel nodded and continued digging.

When the graves were open, Father Gabriel, Tobin, Anne, and a couple others headed over to the Grimes house. Gabriel and Anne knocked on the door. Anne tried not to look at the body of her dear friend below her. They could see Carl moving around in the kitchen inside. When Carl answered, Anne said she'd take Judith for the evening or however long they needed. Carl opened the door wide so she could pass by him.

"Where's your dad," Father Gabriel asked Carl.

"He left," Carl mumbled, "he wouldn't even speak to me."

"We need help with the bodies. Are you able," Gabriel asked gently.

Carl nodded and closed the house door behind him. He assisted Tobin and Gabriel with Olivia while the other volunteers got Spencer. Once the bodies had slid into the graves, Carl reached for the handle of a shovel. Father Gabriel stopped him, placing a hand on Carl's shoulder.

"We've got it from here, Carl. You go home, finish cleaning up."

Carl bit at his lip. "Enid is at the Hilltop." Father Gabriel looked a bit stunned at the young man. "We walked there," Carl continued, "that's where I caught the truck."

"She's safe," Gabriel asked.

"Yeah," Carl confirmed before he turned to walk back to the murder scene that was his home.

* * *

A couple hours later, Michonne arrived at the gate. She had made it back to Alexandria before sundown which had been her goal as she disposed of the vehicle and body she had acquired that day. She had spent the entirety of her solemn task working out what she could say to convince Rick of what she now knew - there was no kind of life under Negan. The Savior's grave she was digging said everything about what life under Negan meant.

Scott opened the gate and let Michonne through. He didn't say a word to her. He didn't want to, and she didn't look like she wanted to talk either. Michonne saw Anne cuddling Judith on her front porch. She waved to Anne who weakly waved back. Anne and Judith was a frequent enough occurrence that in an of itself would not be suspicious. But Anne not calling Michonne over to small talk and update Michonne about Judith? Something was wrong. Michonne glanced down the street and saw the pool table in the middle of the road and a huge dark stain underneath it. She glanced back at Anne, who appeared to be trembling now. Michonne ran toward her home.

When she got to the street in front of her house she could tell it was blood. Lots and lots of blood and the balls on the table looked like an unfinished pool game. Then she went up onto her own porch. Her right hand on the handle of her katana. She looked down and saw a mop bucket of brown soapy water and more faint stains on her porch floor, her stomach wretched with fear. Just then, Carl came out of the house with more towels in his hand. He froze in place at the sight of Michonne looking over his handiwork.

"Carl," Michonne questioned in a high pitch of confusion. She looked at her boy who wasn't wearing any bandage over his wound. He good eye was bloodshot from crying and his clothes and hands were covered in blood stains. Getting a good look at him, she stepped over the bucket and quickly closed the distance between her and Carl. She hugged him close and hard.

"I'm so sorry. I thought I could handle it," Carl confessed into her shoulder. Michonne squeezed him tighter and then pulled away. She looked him in the face.

"Handle what, Carl," she asked slowly. His look pleaded with her. She could tell he felt guilty, but she didn't know what to say to comfort him until she knew what was going on. Guilt started to lap at her thoughts too as the panic subsided. "Let's go inside," she finally offered quietly, but firmly, "so you can tell me what the hell happened."

They sat at the freshly cleaned dining room table as Carl told her everything. Michonne was horrified to learn that Negan was not, in fact, among the group of Saviors the woman had shown her. He had been with Carl or Carl with him. And worse, that Negan had been sitting in the very chair she was sitting in now inside her own damn house. Rage and disgust coursed through her veins. Carl continued describing the murders of Spencer and then Olivia. Michonne held her hand over her mouth her pupils dilated. _This is the end_ , she thought to herself, _trying under Negan is over. There is just one way._

"And then Dad showed up with Aaron all beaten up," Carl continued. Michonne's hand fell.

"Rick," she questioned dolefully, "Rick is here?"

Carl nodded. "He's in the prison cell Morgan built. He headed there after Negan left. He hasn't come back."

Michonne stood up. "I'm heading over there."

"Wait," Carl blurted as he handed her a towel. Michonne looked at him not understanding.

"You should clean up a little bit first. You've got blood on your face and arm," Carl nodded at the evidence with reservation. When he saw her on the porch he knew she had been fighting that day too. Michonne looked at him now with a stricken look on her face. "Thanks," she said almost apologetically.

She headed toward the mirror to see what she could quickly erase with the towel before she headed out to find Rick. She was completely certain that she had to convince him to fight. All the words she had practiced earlier had vanished with the shocking news. She didn't know what she was going to say when she saw him, but she had to try.

* * *

 _Thanks to everyone for the encouragement, I decided to add on._


	3. Chapter 3

Michonne collapsed to her knees as the blood-curdling scream rang out over the gun fire. _Get Up_. Her will screamed inside. _Get Up!_ Michonne never imagined that the flexibility and balance she learned through years of disciplined practice would save her life so directly. Her attacker made the fatal flaw of shifting her balance of gravity into pinning Michonne further over the half wall. A quick kick to the knee and it was over, or rather that worthless bitch was over.

"Rick," she whispered, but her face was so swollen that only the "ic" made a sound. She could hear the gunfire in all directions. More would be coming for her soon. _Get Up!_ Michonne slumped forward until she was on all-fours. Gravity now pressing down against her ribs made her inhale sharply. _Move._ Her head hung down. Blood began to pool in the bruises on her face. The pressure was excruciating, but she was unable to lift her head with her strangled neck. She would have to endure.

Slowly, one hitched breath at a time she crawled _Right arm, move. Left leg, move._ The palms of her gloved hands dragged against the rough floor. _Left arm, move. Right leg, move._ She made it to the doorway which lead inside. "Agggh," she wailed as she labored over the tall threshold. Her ribs throbbed in pain from the contact with the hard surfaces. She almost passed out there on the attic floor. But then she heard strange new sounds, like horses and growling. The sounds were more chaotic, not just gunfire. This was good. _Get up!_

She continued to crawl across the floor of the room for what felt like an eternity. She barely opened her right eye, choosing to cross in darkness, indeed blacking out periodically. She definitely had a concussion. _We're the ones who live._ She thought to herself over and over if she could focus on that then perhaps she wouldn't slip into a coma. Then, all was quiet. She could hear gun fire near the front of the community but not close by anymore. It was over. With all remaining energy, she shifted her weight to one hip to fold her body into a sitting position against a wall. The pressure in her face and chest eased just the slightest. She would have to wait here for Rick, she bargained. He would come for her of that she was certain because _We're the ones who win._

Rick sat on the stool next to Michonne's convalescent bed. His head tilted back resting against the door casing. His eyes slowly fluttered open and closed as a gentle breeze from the cracked open window lulled his thoughts. It was a good night for a breeze, but he also wanted to be able to listen for any new trouble that might arrive.

Drowsy-eyed or not, sleep evaded him. He wanted Michonne's hand in his, but he knew keeping her forearm hostage for hours on end wasn't comfortable for her. His left hand caressed her shoulder and rested there on her warm skin, underneath her soft hair.

Eric came into the room, a cup of chipped ice in his hand. Rick startled. Eric smiled and handed the cup to Rick. "Here, for Michonne." Rick nodded with gratitude. Eric continued, "I've had some experience with this lately. Chipped ice. My specialty." He looked at Michonne sleeping and back at Rick.

"Aaron is lucky to have you."

Eric smiled and exhaled, "It's not luck, just love."

"Oh, I know. I also know it is harder to sit at their side with a cup of ice than it is to be lyin in that bed. Aaron _is_ lucky."

Eric shook his head to keep from blushing at the sincere complement. He could see why Aaron could not stop volunteering to go. Rick had a way of making everyone's contribution, no matter how small, feel essential. He walked over to Rosita's bed to check on her water supply and medication.

"Rick, if you want to go rest for a few hours, I can sit here with them."

"Nah, Judith's at Hilltop. Michonne's here. There's no where I could sleep without 'em. I'm fine here."

"Well, at least let me get you a better chair."

Rick started to protest again but as he shifted positions his stiff left side seized in pain. He abruptly sucked air through his teeth and looked up to see Eric not taking no for an answer.

"Yeah, tha'd be good." As Eric exited, Rick stood up to move the stool to an out of the way spot. He had to admit to himself it was pretty damned uncomfortable. Michonne rustled under her blanket. Her face grimaced as she started to wake. Rick quickly returned and crouched at her side.

"Hey," he whispered in her right ear, "I'm right here. I got ice. Want some?" The grimace on her face faded. He loved that he could bring her comfort, it was a skill he had learned in this new world. And now he could be here for the bravest person he'd ever known, doing this together.

Rick took out a chip and rubbed it softly against her lips. Michonne parted her lips and accepted the chip to suck on and sooth her parched throat. She flashed a small half smile before drifting back to sleep.

Eric reentered the room with a cushioned chair. He paused to observe this small moment of Rick Grimes, a man he perceived could never be still, squatting by the bed of his partner. He wasn't sure why he needed to see this, but in this moment, he finally had empathy for Rick and the choices he made.

Eric cleared his throat to make his presence known and placed the chair down. Before exiting he said, "Aaron will be by in the morning with some food for everyone. I hope spaghetti for breakfast sounds okay."

"Sounds perfect."

Rick placed his new waiting chair next to the bed. This time, toward the foot of her bed facing her. He took her right hand in his and exhaled. Now, he could try to take a nap.


	4. Chapter 4

I wrote this little scene back in the spring. I needed to wrestle with Carol being in the ASZ again, even if momentarily. It didn't seem enough to publish, but I'm missing our show so much I decided anything could help in the drought.

* * *

Carol squatted and hooked her arms underneath the arms of the corpse on the ground. She knew him and wracked her brain trying to come up with his name… Neal. Neal and his wife Susan. From 3 houses over. Neal liked to listen to Garth Brooks and Hank Jr. Susan hated it. Carol recalled what details she could from a double date dinner with them a couple months before.

"Doesn't matter now. They're all dead," she reminds herself aloud. She shakes off the memories and starts to drag Neal's body to the pile. His 230lb frame barely moves as Carol tugs.

"Here, let me help." Carol doesn't have to look up to know who it is. With the extra large arms carrying the bottom half, Neal's body is carried quickly over to its resting place with the others.

"Still always picking the hardest chores, I see. Doing what needs to get done."

"Tobin, I…"

"No, Carol. I know. I saw your face when you returned from that kidnapping. You weren't the same. We weren't the same. And when I saw it again in Rick's face, in Aaron's, I knew what you were running from. What you didn't want to see happen here."

Carol nodded, she bit at her inner cheek fighting back the sorrow. "But it did happen."

"It did," Tobin confirmed as they stared at Neal's body.

Carol exhaled a sigh, "I'm going to check on the wounded. See how Michonne is doing."

Tobin watched Carol walk away toward the infirmary.

When Carol got to the infirmary, she found Michonne struggling to reach behind herself.

"Wait, I got it." She helped adjust the pillows behind Michonne.

"Carol," Michonne stuttered disoriented.

"Yeah, the Kingdom, Morgan, we made it. Almost too late," she added contemplatively, "but we made it."

"Thank you," Michonne countered.

Carol shot her a glare that communicated where Michonne can shove that compulsory appreciation. She hoped the stink eye hid the sting that she once again was outside of the group. She much preferred the expectation that she'd do what needs doing, as Tobin had put it. But, of course, it was that exact same expectation she ran away from weeks ago.

"You looking for Rick?" Rosita inquired.

"No. When was your last compress?"

"Maybe an hour ago."

"I'm going to stick some towels in the refrigerator. Tell Tara. Tomorrow, switch to hot, the both of you." There was silence for a while then Carol added, "I've missed… I'm glad you both are still alive. Stay that way. Rick will need you for what's next."

Her agenda of assessing their health and survival complete, Carol realized she had nothing more to share. She was more apart from them than ever. They had watched Glenn and Abraham brutally murdered. She had murdered several men on the road, been fed and attended to and lived in isolation, sheltered by Ezekiel, Morgan and Daryl, each in his own way. She felt sorrowful that her healing came with their great loss. She stood a while longer observing these resting women she had bonded with over her 2nd lifetime.

When Tara appeared with a few books, she nodded at Carol and went to sit by Rosita.

"Mystery or History," Tara asked Rosita, "its slim choices down there."

Rosita took so long to reply Tara thought she might have been asleep.

"History," she chose, faintly. She wondered if anyone else knew her selection was in memory of Eugene. She may not have killed him today, but only a traitor survived.

As Tara began to read aloud, Carol slipped out of the room and into preparations for what was coming next.


	5. Chapter 5

On an evening after 8x09...

* * *

Rick scanned the forest around the van a final time before closing the back door. It had been 72 hours since he or Michonne last slept. They had pushed through using any emotion, shock, anger, fear, that could fuel them from one hour to the next. The ASZ fires were contained, the survivors safely at Hilltop, their next plans for the Saviors set into motion. Nothing more could be done for now. The darkness of night all around made the world feel claustrophobic. Rick's breathing became shallow as visions of the sewer filled his thoughts. His son there, pale and dying in the dimly light filth.

In the silence, Rick recognized a new wave of shock building. His heart began to beat erratically and the feeling of lead in his veins radiated out from his core. His arms and legs were weighty like boulders. His abdominal muscles trembled involuntarily. As the leaded feeling began to rise up in his throat, Rick thought he could taste metal. He knew this was his body shutting down, drowning him in rising carbon dioxide to protect him from his memories. He whimpered for help before his vocal chords were too heavy.

"Michonne."

Michonne sat across the van from Rick, her knees to her chest. She had been searching through her pack for … something. But whatever it was had been long forgotten as her pack laid slumped at her feet and her eyes were fixed on a rust spot on the floor of the van. Hearing Rick's gravely fragile voice broke her stupor. She turned to look at his shivering figure slumped against the wall of the van. She grabbed the sleeping bag in one hand and crawled over Rick. She wrapped him tightly, tucking the dense blanket underneath him on one side. She then cuddled up close to him draping the open side of the sleeping bag over them both.

With Michonne's head resting on his chest, Rick could breathe again. His heartbeat regulated. He draped his right arm over Michonne, his hand resting on the back of her right arm. He instinctively used the pad of his thumb to trace circles on her tricep. Neither spoke. As the night progressed they allowed their bodies to slide from a semi-reclined position to fully lying in each other's arms on the floor of the van. Their muscles rested and their eyes were closed, but neither were able to shut off their thoughts enough to sleep. When Rick would shake his head from side to side trying to hold back a thought, Michonne would spread her hand wide and place her palm on his chest. She guarded his heart against jumping out of his chest. When Michonne's eyes would spring open from a lived nightmare, Rick would trace her face.

Rick had thought his sleepless nights of worry after Glenn's death was hell. He was terribly wrong. This was hell, two broken hearts, the most unimaginable grief and no idea if it would ever end. As they clung to each other hoping for the early light and the next set of chores in the war, they prayed to themselves that the future they were building in honor of Carl would include their own will to sleep.


End file.
